xA Fairytale Of New Yorkx
by Censorship is a Cancer
Summary: Rated NC-17 for the seven deadly sins. [Frost/OC] Dorothy Street teaches Deacon a little bit about humanity.
1. Chapter One

**CHAPTER ONE**

_I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger.  
__Except in its absolute effect -  
__in __**terror**_.

- Edgar Allan Poe -

Midnight. Oceanic. Sapphire.

_**Beautiful...**_

Azure. Sky. Twilight.

_**Magic...**_

"No. No way, you gotta stay with me - hey!" Fading... fading... _fading_... every fiber was falling, dissolving away in tingling sensations that forced the male's head back, accepting his defeat with grace and honor. No fear. No pain. No worries. Release swept over the erratic thrumming of a vital organ pumping those last few pints of blood through sensitive eardrums. The familiar, reaping darkness had billowed around the feeble mind, encompassing all it had meant to hundreds of years ago.

_**Sleep...**_

"You can't sleep now." That same cheek once turned at such high altitudes was tossed aside by a smarting smack from a seemingly delicate hand. It returned just then. Fear. Pain. Worry. No grace and no honor. Just another corpse for the diseased rodents to feast upon. Fertilizer. Soil. Flesh, blood and bone. All of it seeped into shattered marrow, forcing air to hitch desperately in the male's dry throat as he tried so hard to _let go_. The intricately prepared steps taken towards Death itself was nothing compared to what awaited the newborn corpse if that pain in his cheek were to reach his mind and register all the scenarios he didn't want to believe - all the events that lead to this moment of complete disgrace.

_**Natural... selection...**_

Not a human, nor enhanced being could understand the immensity of betrayal that pained the heart that weakened with every passing millisecond in a bruised and battered structure. Hence the swift conclusion to accept Fate's way and succumb to that inevitable end.

"Courage, Frost."

Courage. Something fear itself had great appetite for. It clawed its way into the back of the mind and nested, planting little tumors of doubt and pessimism that hatched and bled into all those little currents. The hatchlings took over, waging war on all those tiny, electric pulses of aptitude and determination and struck them down in cold... _hot_ blood.

Blood. He could feel it. Hear it. Pulsing. Swishing. Squishing. A copper, necessary taste in his mouth that went rather well with peppermint schnaps and the crumbling of a proud human personality in the midst of ultimate terror. A theme park of souls and red delights that he was so adamant on creating only hours before this moment.

_Courage, __**Deacon**__._ She had said that to him once. Once; when that weakness that was humanity still clutched his body and soul like a vice. When all he had to go on was the futuristic beauty of science and all the progress it had encompassed. She had said it once, when his work had seemingly been depleted and all he had accomplished had crumbled before his eyes. She had said it when he still felt love, passion and pain and showed it with unerring ease. She had said it when he still loved _her_. When she still loved him. When that love died tragically. Beautifully.

By his very hand.

No.

There was no courage here.

He knew exactly what was waiting for him.

But there was no fire eating his flesh from the inside out. There was no ash; no sizzling welcoming him to the Hell awaiting. No split-second blaze that was supposed to make him fade away quickly, like it had done to so many others like himself. Those crackling embers that were meant to wrought a welcome shadow over his dark-attuned heart would have been congratulated.

But none came. All that he felt were pelts of heavy, torturous raindrops that stung fresh wounds on the canvas of his face and body. The painful reality of humanity struck every ventricle of ripped, torn flesh. Those little tumors ate away at his brain over and over; reminding him of the slow, agonizing end he was facing.

He didn't understand why every strike sent him flying. The comprehension of every feeble hit from her and why it had made him feel the cartilage and marrow painfully snap and shatter was lost. How had his defeat arrived on such swift wings? How had she taken him down - bested him in intelligence, strength and force? What sedative had she replaced the serum with? How had she turned his own men against him? Why? He would've given her everything.

"Don't." That same voice rang through his mind. Feminine. American. Giving. Taking.

Human. A sun-lover. **Weak**.

A swollen eye managed to brave the agony and split open to face the horrifying blur that awaited him. An outline of the mouth of that terrifyingly familiar alleyway was immediately taken notice of. But the image trembled and shook. A hand reached to his chin, forcing it to turn. Even the gentility behind the motion alone shot a jolt of searing pain through his stiff neck joints and followed throughout his right collarbone. He couldn't even reach for the human's delicate digits to push them away, let alone bring that blurred, vulnerable neck to his lips to drink. He didn't even find the urge to feed when his icy hue settled upon the deep sea orbs that healthily locked onto a familiar stare.

Midnight. Oceanic. Sapphire.

No rush of beastly survival took him as he stared so weakly into those eyes, soon traveling quizzically to the neck that presented itself so nonchalantly to the vampire's penetrating gaze. No feeding nature. No need to rip flesh from bone and build his strength up right down to the very marrow in her bones. No overwhelming desire for the blood in those veins to take him back to power again.

Just...

"H... elp... me."

Comfort. Aid. Mercy. **Help**.

"Ain't right, B. It's already done." Speaking to another. Nothing but shadows to Deacon Frost as the one eye that held the miniscule capability to see remained enthralled by the heroic, deep blue orbs that refused to release his attention. "He's human now."

Human? No. It wasn't possible. How could she find a way to poison his strength and push him down to the very level that he considered cattle. Food. A brand-spankin'-new member of the all-you-can-eat buffet. How could she turn him into the one thing he hated most?

"Kill 'im." This voice. Male. Strong. Dark.

**Blade**.

"No..." Of all people. Not him. He couldn't be struck down now. Not when he was so close...

So close...

"No." Femininity echoed sternly. His eye closed finally when she broke the stare, trying to will death to drag him into its clutches faster. He would much rather die here than face either fate: human life or death by Blade's hand or his little lackey.

"I'll do it." Steps were taken, but blocked quickly.

"NO." More sternness from femininity. More pressure. More tension.

_Let me die,_ his mind begged. But he found himself unable to express his own wishes. Die by himself. By his own rules. On his own terms.

"Humans are **my** territory, B." Hers? Even worse. This blue-Bambi-eyed bitch was going to be the one to kill him? A feeble, weak human would be the one to end the one and only Deacon Frost? "We had an agreement."

"Fine. Better be prepared if y'let 'im live, Dot." He could already feel Blade's presence vanish. He could feel the renowned vampire-slayer leave him in the hands of his little slut groupie.

Dot. Dotty.

_Dorothy..._

**xxx**

_"Now... Dorothy Street -"_

_"Dotty." Corrections. That same cocky little voice. _

_"Excuse me?" Pride's own eyes swept to the tiny, 5'2" frame and gave her a once-over, trying to see if he'd heard the bitch quite right. Was she... correcting him?_

_"You're excused." A sly smirk. Deep blue eyes glimmering with triumph. Lips twisting and accentuating the lovely labret piercing that lay in the center of that bite-able bottom pout. _

**xxx**

He knew her. One so beneath him. One who worked for him. One who wasn't supposed to understand him until he understood her and whatever threat she posed. The Gunslinger of NYC herself... preparing to finish him good and proper.

He knew what she was ever since that night. He had known - he had followed and studied. He had admired her bravery and strength against overwhelming odds; her carelessness with her own fate in order to save an innocent soul. He had prepared for the day when she would come head-to-head with him: the one fight he'd ensure she'd never walk away from. Silently - he had been taken to the distant shadows cast in the wake of her glories. He had learned her well in his time of power. So wrapped up in his own pride that he hardly noticed that she had learned him just as well (if not, better) through his sworn enemy. A pathetic sack of meat and bone had wiggled into his business without him knowing. Constantly under the impression that he had the upper hand and this woman - this human - had bested his smarts.

"Dorothy..." It hurt to speak... hurt to breathe... hurt to _live_.

Yet, in the midst of this horrifying scene, Deacon Frost found a morbid sense of solace. The pain was beginning to numb. Exhaustion had crept into his head. Rest. Sleep. Eternal darkness had become had become a familiar comfort.

"Not yet, Frost." Her voice was softer. The numbness faded away and the pain swiftly returned as a slender arm had looped around his waist, forcing him from his solace to face the agony - the true agony - of his broken body. A groan escaped him as he was lifted to his feet. He almost crumbled in her hold as pain scattered and seared through each limb. "Ain't your time."

His time. What would it be now? Would he waste away? Would he grow old, die of age and face the payment for his destruction later on when he was too weak to fight it? No matter if he was changed by some miracle, there would be no rest for his soul. He had split it with every life he destroyed. Until it cut itself into fractions; slivers of the weak man he once was before thoughts of immortality even began poisoning his brain.

Heaven had closed its doors for all the things he'd done.

Every step towards the condemning life of humanity seemed more painful than the actual, physical agony that coursed through every inch of him. By the time he had been dribbled into the passenger seat of the vigilante's precious El Camino, he had succumbed to his final hope: subconsciousness. Maybe, by some depressingly optimistic notion, she would be too late in saving him.

**xxx**

"Dotty, you gotta be kidding me." Hunter exclaimed, moving against his judgment and helping the young woman move Deacon Frost's unconscious body into the guest bedroom of the house that rested on the outskirts of NYC. "You got a crush on this asshole now?"

"Stop trying to convince me otherwise, Hunter. Help me now. Hate me after we've saved his life." Street snapped once the newborn human had been poured into bed, already beginning to bleed into the sheets. "Get the kit."

"Dot, this is Deacon-fuckin'-Frost." He didn't move his overshadowing, fatherly frame from the doorframe yet. As though he were trying one last time to make her see the error of her ways in saving the now-human life of a man who had done far more bad than good. "You know he wouldn't do the same for you."

"Yeah, that's his problem. Get the fucking kit."

"Dorothy-"

"Get. The fucking. Kit."

He didn't move. Her anger piqued.

"NOW."

The glare cast over her shoulder was enough to make the Devil himself tremble. It burned into Hunter's soul. He shifted.

"I hope you know what you're doing." That foreboding message leaking into the air, the girl's beloved figure swept from the doorframe, parting from her company to gather the medical supplies.

A long sigh bled from Dorothy Street's lips and those deep, cerulean hues stared blankly at the unconscious form seeping fresh blood into the sheets.

"Me too."


	2. Chapter Two

**CHAPTER TWO**

_Words have no power to impress the human mind...  
without the exquisite horror of their realities._

- Edgar Allan Poe -

_"Really, Deacon, you should have seen this coming." That tone... that other tone. The one that belonged to a bleach-blonde head of inevitable betrayal. Foreign accent. Proud gaze. The stance of one proud of a horrid accomplishment. He'd worn that very same gaze at that very moment. "The gain in this little sacrifice is much more promising than being your little bitch for all eternity."_

_"Funny, you didn't seem to mind it when I called you that last night. Besides..." Pride walked suavely towards the pale face of deceit. "Once this little serum works its magic... I'll drag you out into the sun myself and watch you burn."_

_Delicate, feminine palms found home on Mercury's hips. Her chest puffed out in defiance and a triumphant expression swept onto her features as a swarm of Deacon's own guards took position behind her, defying his orders and reputation blatantly._

_He'd deal with them later._

_"You think I didn't work all that out, Deacon?" She tsk-ed at him, relieving one side of her hip a moment to wag a slender finger in his face. "How could you think I'm a fool? There's a reason I built up my reputation with you. Played you. There's a cause for your downfall. Believe it or not, that cause pays more than you do."_

_"And what's the cost, Mercury? Hm?" Still so cool; so confident that he'd make it out of that building without a scratch on him. "Killing me?" A proud scoff. "As if you could."_

_"As a vampire? No." Mercury's grin widened. Her triumph was vacant in her eyes. "But as a human..."_

_That pride opposing her own vanished. His cockiness faded. Eyes went wide in horror. His gut clenched and contorted._

_"You should've known, Deacon."_

_A strong male hand shot out, clasping as hard as possible around the immortal woman's throat._

_"You didn't." He hissed._

_She merely knocked his hand from her swanlike neck and retaliated with a catapulted fist to his cheek. He struck the floor of the penthouse in the Edgewood tower hard, as though he were some fly pestering a large human. Pain coursed through his cheek. He had felt the suddenly fragile bone structure crackle under the pressure of the hit. The pain never faded. Healing never commenced._

**_xxx_**

Dotty opened the bedroom door but a sliver, allowing her deep blue hues to drink in the sight of her questionable guest. Her right hand clutched coffee; the other held a glass of ice water. Noting the soft whimpers and groans emitting from the vain ex-vampire's lips, she nudged the door open further with the side of her left foot, permitting her more room to enter.

**xxx**

_Breathing alone was becoming enough of a complication, let alone forcing his feet to keep pounding on the pavement. The icy vampire's body suddenly felt so heavy. His limbs were dragging and his speed was not nearly the match it once was. Frost never thought it would come to this: trying to ignore the pain in order to gain as much distance between him and his former life as possible._

_Knots twisted in the male's intestines, making him screech to a halt and duck into the mouth of a nearby alleyway. The vomit came up hard, making the cruel bloodsucker wretch and heave up the 24-year-old Korean girl he had devoured only hours before._

_All the while, Mercury was stealing Karen Jensen's little cure for vampirism. All for those same pureblood fucks that wanted to cut her up and cast her out in the first place. All so she could get the same power and authority that he had._

_Frost vomited more, feeling the pain of the change beginning to take him over. He didn't even notice that Mercury's new gang had snuck up behind him, let alone being able to register his own transforming body being tossed like a doll against the brick wall of the alleyway as sharp, gnashing teeth began shrieking closer to his face-_

**_xxx_**

As if waking up would be any better. The moment he screamed himself into consciousness, agony scorned each surrounding millimeter of flesh adorning his body. He felt a slim, toned arm rest over his chest and gently guide his weak form back to the foreign, soft mattress beneath him. He coughed, his face contorting as his chest tightened. The former vampire took a moment to regain what composure he could.

"Drink this." The rim of a straw prodded at parched, bruised and chopped lips. On instinct, a weak hand tried to reach for the cold glass. A hoarse moan followed suit as the beaten body smarted in response and that same hand surrendered at the male's side. "Just open your mouth." The voice snapped. If there had been even a fraction of the strength he used to have, an insult or a retort would have spun swiftly from those dry lips to put the bitch in her place. However, focus was forced and those pouts parted and the straw slid inside. He gulped once, almost under the impression that it was blood until the refreshing taste of ice-cold water began soothing that scratchy throat. Any other time, any other species, any more strength and he would have spat the liquid out in disgust. Right now, it tasted like Heaven.

Recognition of an empty glass wasn't noticed until the tell-tale slurp of the straw sounded. The hollow, plastic stick withdrew from his lips. A cough escaped him, feeling that horrible tightening in his chest once more. That same hand braved enough to reach up and touch the bandaged area in the center of his chest. A wince (barely visible) fluttered over his features as he recalled why it would have been stitched.

"M... more." His weak voice managed. His eyes were still corseted tightly shut. Lashes bound. He heard the petit form rise and small feet patter almost noiselessly from the room. Once gone, he convinced that same left eye to work itself open so he could assess the sight.

Blurriness clouded his vision at first as that icy gray orb drank in the blandness of the guest bedroom. Eventually, the sight cleared after a few blinks and he gathered his courage enough to peer down at his own frame.

"Christ." He groaned. The sheets were stained in crimson. A trash can nearby was stuffed full of gauze and deep red cloths. His torso had been covered, arms-to-legs, in gashes and bruises. The center of his battered, broken torso was bandaged to signify where the knife had been driven into him for shits and giggles by the one woman he'd almost considered a friend. Ally. Lover.

Look at what that bitch did to him.

_For the wise: no such thing as "friend"_...

Deacon couldn't even imagine what his face must have looked like at this point. He almost thought he'd wake to all of this being some terrifying nightmare. Healed, perfect and immortal again.

The door creaked, giving way to the slender, short little female with a fresh refill and, this time, a cigarette. These piercing blue eyes bore hard into him from the entrance of the doorway alone. He cast his own eye down, unable to look into the face that saved his life; almost wishing she'd just leave him to die in peace. How could someone be so cruel? Hate for humankind bred quicker than he thought in his heart.

Damn humans. Always thinking everybody needed saving.

Thirst had suddenly vanished and the dire need for solitude replaced it. The vigilante took up the seat next to his bed once more, bringing the straw to his lips. Deacon's neck swiveled and is head rotated in the opposite direction, refusing her unusually kind nature with much pain. He heard an elongated sigh come from her; exhausted.

Had she slept?

He blinked hard. He didn't care.

"Fine." She smacked the glass onto the table, almost making the delusional man jump, and pushed herself to stand. "Fuckin' die of thirst, then."

An icy gray eye forced itself open. Pride encompassed the man and his lips never parted to stall the cloud of cigarette smoke billowing out through the bedroom door. Slate orbs bee-lined to the tempting, ice-cold beverage and the frosty male tried his best to reach out and grab it himself. When defeat was recognized, he growled in agonizing frustration and forced himself to relax on the bed, going into a small coughing fit. Soon after the tremors of the tense chest subsided, Deacon fell directly back into that nightmarish sleep.

**xxx**

_He almost wanted to ask why... but the answer was apparent. He wanted to ask how, but he already knew. _

_Mercury had planned this the moment after that meeting with Dragonetti. She did it because she could; because Deacon had taught her well. He had taken her under his wing as her sire, taught her the tricks... taught her how to __trade__ him. _

_"Fuckin'... bitch..."_

_"What's that, Deacon?" The blade of the slim knife was torn from his chest, but the release of the pressure was nowhere near comforting. He felt it narrowly miss vital organs aplenty. Only to keep her little toy alive longer to have some fun._

_An involuntary slump defeated the new human to the dirt-covered pavement. Muscles screamed for release from this world; this __life__. In that moment, he prayed for death._

_Until a sliver of light decided to shine at the end of his eternal night. _

_He couldn't visualize the fight that had broken out in that alley, but he knew at least two of Mercury's little sidekicks had been turned to naught but ash in a matter of seconds. A sense of vicarious triumph attached to his heart. The urge to grin lessened immediately, once the pain of moving any facial muscles presented itself._

_Silence fell over the alley. All that perked sensitive ears was the sound of another, lighter set of footprints heading over to his body. A pair of hands grasped strong, bruised shoulders and forced him up to sit. _

_"Hey man, are you o - holy mother and creator of fuck..." the voice of femininity trailed in sheer shock, "it's him, B... it's Frost."_

**_xxx_**

"How the fuck could you do this, Dot?" The foreign shout raised the icy-eyed human from slumber. Light breezed through the cracks in the shut, light blue curtains brightly. It almost blinded his left eye once he'd opened it. On instinct, he almost pried his body out of its range, but stopped once agony seared through every inch of him. "You realize this could put our whole operation in jeopardy? Frost could go out, get turned and be back in power all over again. If we're lucky, he'll save us for last!"

"Man, fuck you, Hunter! You think I was born yesterday? I'm tryn'a get his ass well enough just to take 'im to a damn hospital! Fucker can't even take a drink by 'imself, let alone _run out and get turned_! So what else you got in 'ere for me, old man?" A pause ensued. Male footsteps were heard crossing into another room. Frost assumed it was the kitchen when he heard cupboards opening and slamming in anger.

The man had a point, but so did Street. Frost was helpless... for now.

He hated that.

Little footsteps followed suit.

"As of right now, he's not a threat-"

"No, he's a fucking liability. You know how many of them leeches want him dead? You're stupid enough to put us all at risk over some word-slick-fuckin' serial killer just because he's human now? This is, by far, the dumbest stunt you've ever pulled." Deacon almost wanted to sneer at this Hunter's little rant. But his own mixed feelings about the situation stopped him. Deacon's ears perked, almost hoping to hear a retaliation - a reason as to why this little bitch decided to play God with his life.

"Even if he were to turn... he'd be a newborn. He'd also be outnumbered by a lot of folks who want him gone." Tiny feet shuffled. A chair was pulled out and sat upon. "He has information that could be useful to us-"

"Deacon Frost selling out his own kind?" Hunter scoffed in disbelief. "That'd be the day."

"As if they didn't just do the same thing to him? Not to mention: he's a human with nowhere to go and a lot of danger following him around."

"No, he's a newborn human serial killer, who's made himself a lot of honest-earned enemies. He should still be rotting in that alley where you found him-"

"The point is: he's my territory now. He fucks up, he knows what'll happen." Her voice grew more proud; more unbreakable. A woman - a human - hell-bent on keeping Frost alive.

How... idiotic.

"I know that. My question is: what if he fucks up and people you love get killed because of it? Because of _one_ fuck-up?"

He could almost taste the tension.

"I'm gonna go check on him."

"He ain't stayin' here, Dot. You hear me?"

"Yeah, your voice carries." The vigilante finalized before she walked to the door. Only to find the topic of discussion had been awake. She shook off the vague ability to care and brought a fresh glass of water to the bedside. Apparently she had collected the stale one when he was sleeping.

Even through the previous battle and the topic at hand, no excuses or petty cover-ups left the journalist's lips. One thing the frosty ex-vampire had to hand to her: she truly didn't give thought to the height of others' opinions regarding her. He could peg her as the type who wouldn't say anything behind a person's back if she wouldn't say it to their face firsthand. Dorothy Street had earned a sliver of respect from him long ago for that fact alone.

The air itself felt hard to swallow. Even as the girl raised the straw to his lips in hopes he'd drink, Deacon already felt like he was drowning in thickness of pride. It would have been exciting as a vampire, but as a freshly-injured sack of meat, it was more terrifying than he wanted to admit.

He drank. Hesitantly. A bit of coughing ensued and Street pulled the straw away and settled the glass ever-so-calmly upon the nightstand once more. Once the coughing fit stopped, she craned her frame forth and reached out a slender set of digits. They slithered around his wrist and twisted to the point of nearly breaking bones. A sharp cry fled his lips from the excruciating agony that followed with it. Femininity jerked him forward mercilessly, bringing proud lips to her captive's ear and hissing words to the presumed wise.

"I want you to _fuckin'_ remember this moment. The pain. The _agony_. Multiply it by a thousand for me..." She twisted harder, hearing a growl bleat through his chapped lips, "'cause that's what you're gonna feel for the rest of your _human_ fuckin' life if you prove Hunter right." The grip lessened considerably until he was released. Petit feet shuffled back calmly and a blurry left eye cast begrudgingly upon the feminine frame. "You got a second chance, Frost. Don't mess it up."


	3. Chapter Three

**CHAPTER THREE**

_Sleep; those little slices of death - how I loathe them."_

**Edgar Allan Poe**

Surely, the lesser portion of a minute was all it took before pride itself had succumbed to a nightmarish slumber once again, due to the sheer agony inflicted by the tiny warrior. Traces of his former lividity trickled along the subconscious brain stem; a harsh reminder of what once was. But soon, a very human thing happened that caused that swollen eye to jerk open and toss to the source of the mild discomfort. The urge to sit up didn't touch the wary, new human. Not as the scenery of his fresh bandages seeped into his mind and registered properly. Soon, that piercing hue strayed from his own battered chest to the source of the medical attention.

"Try not to move." Hunter had instructed as he finished the last bandage. Taking in the old man's prominent features and the gravely voice that matched them, Deacon mutely heeded the advice and remained docile. "Gotta get you well enough to go to a hospital. These wounds won't heal with what little shit we got here." Rioting blue bee-lined to the copious amounts of pill bottles nestled in the corner of the nightstand, almost tempted to brave his pain, pop them all open and drown in his own comatose state. He second-guessed; thinking for a fraction of a moment that, perhaps, there was a chance he wouldn't be able to go through with it.

"B... bathroom." The wheeze caught the old man off-kilter. For a moment, the former vampire spotted a shocked expression as it flitted temporarily over the wrinkled visage, only to dissolve into a blank look once more. How long had he been out? How much rest did he really need? When would he be well enough to at least step out of this bedroom on his own?

"Figures it's gonna be me." Hunter growled out, forcing himself up and easing a muscular arm under Deacon's. He forced the smaller fledgling's limb over his shoulder and caught his torso, easing him from the bed. Frost followed his lead with a plethora of grunts, sighs and moans of absolute pain. Was this what he inflicted on his victims when he played with his food before? Was this the agony they felt? Did they feel the same fear he had that night? A once proud head hung low as he was practically dragged to the bathroom.

_Fuck, I don't want this asshole around. I'll take that short little bitch any day..._

"D... Dotty." He breathed, wincing from the pain in his chest. He could almost feel the old man's gaze burning through his skull when he mentioned _her_. "Where...?"

"She's out." The seasoned human grunted in response, almost slamming Frost's naked frame down onto the toilet. "Make it quick." The finalization was almost as unsurprising as the slam of the bathroom door that followed.

_Don't get too excited, grandpa._ His mind reeled in response as the natural flow took hold. By the time it had finished, the relief that overwhelmed him was potent. At least there was a certain satisfaction that would remain constant in this form.

How the fuck was Hunter supposed to harbor hatred for a human who couldn't even relieve himself without someone's help? Granted, Deacon Frost was no peach, but that was before. In this moment, seeing one that was once so powerful so broken and beaten... it was hard to feel anything aside from pure pity. Hunter had known what it was like to be in such states. Dotty had seen him at his worst and she had done nothing but open her heart and home to him. Rage had struck his psyche when she had done the very same to Frost. The bastard didn't deserve her kindness. Hell, he didn't even deserve her threats. All he'd earned was a right ticket to Hell, all expenses paid.

Now, all the poor bastard had to do was wait for the end.

Chewing upon his lip, he heard a vague groan emit from within the lavatory's confines and took that as his cue. Prying the entrance open, the fatherly figure discovered a lapse in testosterone when Deacon attempted to get his own self up from the seat. "I told ya to try not to move too much." The old man muttered begrudgingly while bee-lining for the man when he stumbled. He caught Frost in his arms and stood him upright, hauling his limb over his shoulder once more and guiding him along.

The injured man's dragging footsteps stalled, however, the moment they went to pass by the mirror. Hunter almost tripped over his own feet, his angered hues darting to where the man's sight was located. He noticed his own wounds.

_Hell_.

It's what he looked like. What he felt like.

_Hell_.

It's what he smelled like. What he talked like. A man shaved down to his last thread of life. Who's sanity had been cauterized and branded with a "LACK THEREOF" sign. He had been broken before; to the point where he was almost certain the pain would end him. However, the following day proved false when he was fully healed, up and moving as though his wounds never took place. But now... he was getting a sick, twisted reminder of what it was like to be human again; to feel that pain so completely... every day.

"I've seen worse, kid." _Kid? You better not fuckin' call me kid again, old man..._ "So has she."

_She_. The little gun-toting cunt who thought herself all high and mighty because he had officially sunk to her level and couldn't get back up. The one who twisted his arm to the point of breaking and _threatened him_. As if Deacon cared if she had to dote on him hand and foot. As if he didn't find himself getting a sick little tingle of joy in making her do things she wouldn't like for him. Indeed, she thought herself above him now. Just wait until these wounds healed. Even as a human, they were temporary.

He'd prove that this little Gunslinger was nothing more than a big mouthed coward when he was finished with her. Human or not. He'd show the bitch that he was still worthy of taking her down.

"C'mon." Deacon pulled himself from his newfound goals and fantasies. His bruised eyes tore themselves from the destruction of his own body. The bandages, the bruises and the bags under his hues. The blues, greens and gross yellows decorating his flesh. He avoided reminiscing of Mercury and the way her fists of fury beat him down so easily. Feet dragged alongside a proud stride back to the bedroom. The frosted soul didn't even bother taking in the decent four walls surrounding him. The roof over his head or the rooms he passed on his path. Instead, his ass found home on the seat next to his bedside as he laid in impatient wait for the old man to change the bed sheets so he could lay back down and go to sleep.

"Hunter, you in - good God!" The feminine voice carried, hitched and stalled in place the moment those deep blue orbs rested on a very nude Deacon Frost. Her eyes averted. A deep blush tinged her cheeks. "What the _fuck_ is he doing out of bed?!"

"Man's gotta take a piss, Dotty." Hunter responded, almost barely fazed by the grown woman's freakout session. "Don't get all blushing school-girl on me, now."

Had she never seen a naked man before? A smug expression would have wormed its way onto the injured's face, had it not been so painful.

"You couldn't just... throw a sheet on him or some shit?" A tiny pair of feet shuffled from the doorway and vanished into the kitchen with a resounding 'Jesus Christ' murmured under a shaky tone.

Frost smirked inwardly, feeling rather triumphant, now that he'd found a new, tiny tool to jab the girl with.

Wait... that came out wrong.

"You'd think the girl ain't never seen a naked man before. If that's the case..." A miniscule joke faded in a hesitant laugh before Hunter Jacobs finally realized the recipient of the jest. His smirk faded as he finished changing the sheets and a deep growl of a sigh bled from his lips before he turned back to his freshly bandaged guest. "C'mon." He guided the injured into his rightful bed once more, righting his stance after he tucked the fresh covers around him. "Get... uh... get some sleep."

_Don't need to tell me twice._ Deacon had fallen into slumber quicker than he could have imagined. He was out by the time Dorothy Street had returned to bring him water.

**xxx**

_Dorothy Gable-Anne Street._

_'What a hideous name.' Deacon mused, his piercing hues roving over the psychiatric file of his recently discovered employee. CRITICS had been running for five years. The only reason he'd taken it on for sponsorship was begrudgingly on behalf of a certain demon he controlled. Dallas Prowden. A cursed man from long ago who had been under Deacon's command for almost two hundred years. He had reassured him that he would grant him his magazine (CRITICS) if he did a few dirty deeds on his behalf. Of course, the Irish demon had taken it upon himself to hire the most unstable writer who wound up miraculously making the magazine a huge hit. Literally. _

_Dorothy Gable-Anne Street._

_She screamed trouble. Deacon, unfortunately, had kept himself out of the CRITICS loop for quite some time. Until he had found himself drowning in a few lawsuits from people she had openly attacked. _

_How someone so tiny could cause so much damage, he was unsure. However, he had made it a point to find out; and to discover how she got away without any punishment whatsoever. _

_Throughout his investigations, he discovered Dallas Prowden's ever-growing infatuation with the girl... he also found something else that drew him to her..._

_She was a _**_killer_**_. _

_But not just __any__ killer. _

_She was New York City's renowned Gunslinger; the killer of killers. The vigilante, who had been screwing with his dirty transactions for almost four years running. She was reckless... desirous. Passionate. Bloody. _

_He admired her conviction... but not her delivery. _

_Frost had then made it a point to make Dotty Street's life the biggest Hell she'd ever experienced. He had sent her through the ringer._

_Therapy sessions. _

_She brutalized two out of three of her psychiatrists. One got a black eye, the second found her too rough to work with and the third... well, he was at least able to fill out an evaluation before he finally gave up on the job. _

_Police. _

_She knew her wormy way through the system all too well. _

_Killing her hadn't become an option. Yet. Deacon enjoyed playing a lot more than the kill itself. She'd proven herself a worthy adversary. All humanity aside, she was smart. He wanted to find use for her; make her dance with the Devil before he took her soul. _

_"Visible scars, along with personality could be a result of Post-traumatic Stress Disorder; more than likely subject to night terrors. Apparent Asexuality..."_

_"Asexuality?" Quinn repeated, giggling hard. "That's like - when you're attracted to everything and anything, right?" The giggles bleated out harder. "Yo, this bitch is freaky!"_

_"That's pansexual, Quinn. Asexuality is when you don't find interest in anything regarding sex. Male, female or otherwise." Potential virgin. _

_Frost hadn't had blood like that in a long time..._

_He continued reading to himself. _

**_Hypervigilence... sadistic personality disorder... eidetic memory and an adept knowledge of firearms and assorted weaponry. Her religion is clearly Agnostic-Theist._**

_Health inspection..._

**_Pique physical human condition. Height: 5'2". Weight: 110 lbs. Blood type: AB+. Eye color: midnight blue. Natural hair color: brown. Right/left-handed: ambidextrous._**

_She sounded delicious._

**xxx**

"He should be well enough for travel tomorrow. At least to the hospital." Hunter concluded, taking up a hot cup of coffee across from the columnist. Dorothy inclined her head in acknowledgment, staring down into her emptying mug as she roved a finger over the rim absentmindedly. "About yesterday-"

"Don't." His speech slowed, dying in his throat. Her way of saying he was right. Instead, he merely nodded curtly. "I can take him off your hands."

"No need." Eyes clashed in mediocre understanding. "Already changed the sheets."

A long pause ensued.

"Right."

A/N: Alright, role call.

Dorothy: Isopode of Art Irritant.

Hunter: Mickey Rourke (as seen in Expendables)

Dallas Prowden: Matt Shadows of Avenged Sevenfold

Deacon Frost (vampire): Stephen Dorff as seen in Blade.

Deacon Frost (human): Stephen Dorff normal (clearly between 1997-2000).


End file.
